


Shadow's Embrace

by Bohemienne



Series: Ficmas 2019 [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Violence, Choking, Dark, Dirty Talk, Ferdinand's Villainsexual Kink, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Under-negotiated Kink, Villainsexual Ferdinand, bottom!ferdinand, top!hubert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: Hubert doesn't fear acting on his attraction to Ferdinand because he fears staining Ferdinand's purity. He fears awakening Ferdinand's darkness instead.A Ficmas 2019 gift for @SpiceHya.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Series: Ficmas 2019 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1550113
Comments: 15
Kudos: 303





	Shadow's Embrace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpiceHya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiceHya/gifts).



> For SpiceHya, who wanted Hubert and Ferdinand coming to embrace Ferdinand's darker instincts! (And also inspired by [their gorgeously bloody art of exactly that](https://twitter.com/SpiceHya/status/1187419108502949888) lol)
> 
> Thank you for your amazing art, headcanons, and elder goth solidarity <3333 ILU Hya!

It’s the sight of Ferdinand twisting his sword in the gut of the last conspirator that paints the full, bloody mural of just what Hubert’s done.

Ferdinand leans against the hilt of his sword, driving it deeper into the man’s gut, heedless of his gurgled moans. Sweat mingles with the dirt and sprays of blood across his face; he huffs a heavy breath as the man goes still at last. But as he wrenches his sword loose with a squelching sound and turns to Hubert, he is—glowing.

“I told you, love.” Ferdinand steps toward him, sword tip dragging a crimson trail through the leaves. “You needed my help.”

What Hubert needs is so much more than help.

He drops his poisoned dagger into the underbrush to reclaim it later and meets Ferdinand halfway. Unthinking, he brings blood-stained black gloves to Ferdinand’s cheeks. To think he used to fear staining this man—tainting a pure, angelic creature, soiling him with Hubert’s oil-slick soul. He’d been so blinded by Ferdinand’s radiance that he couldn’t see the darkness in his heart.

“Beloved.” Hubert’s heart is pounding out a frantic tattoo, blood thick in his ears, breath quick and hungering as their foreheads meet. The air is metallic, charged, as Ferdinand’s sword falls away. Hubert’s gloves slip into his hair, leaving a crimson smear. Marking him. Claiming him.

Revealing who and what his lover has always been.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand says—

And then he’s kissing Hubert, copper tang to his tongue as it thrusts into Hubert’s mouth, a feral moan rising in his chest to echo Hubert’s soul. And the bloodlust he’s seen in Ferdinand during battle was only a drop, it was only a surface wound, compared to this, teeth gnashing and Ferdinand’s white-gloved hands tearing at Hubert’s black assassin’s garb.

Hubert pushes back, mouth devouring Ferdinand’s, fingers tightening in his hair until Ferdinand cries out. He needs more of Ferdinand—he cannot get close enough, he wants to bury himself in that light and that dark—he wants those wicked, righteous hands to slay him, too—

“Please, Hubert.” Ferdinand’s mouth breaks from his, only to drag teeth at Hubert’s neck, sucking and snarling as he goes. “Please—”

Hubert yanks at the delicate fastenings of Ferdinand’s coat until they tear free. “Please, _what_?” he snarls, fumbling at Ferdinand’s belt—before, with a huff of annoyance, sliding a tiny blade from his sleeve and cutting it free.

Suddenly, Ferdinand’s hands grab at his wrists, thumbs digging in so hard to their undersides that Hubert drops the blade with a gasp. Ferdinand’s face is livid as he glares right into Hubert’s eyes; the bloody trails on his cheeks are fresh and cruel. And not for the first time in this endeavor, Hubert knows real terror—he knows this Ferdinand, provoked and awakened, is teetering on the edge, and either way he falls, he’ll take Hubert with him.

Hands still at Hubert’s wrists, he wrenches him close and bites Hubert’s lip, hard. Hubert growls at the sharp pain, but welcomes it. It’s an outlet for the boiling in his blood, the hunger of his blade, the want throbbing through him—

And Ferdinand pulls back, wild and alive, and says, “Fuck me.”

* * *

He’d been so bright and loud once, harsh as the Blue Sea Moon sun, brash as a reveille. It could only be a front for something, Hubert thought, watching the young Aegir heir trounce through the palace halls, determined to be everything his father was not. But the first time he saw Ferdinand kill, while on a mission at the Officers’ Academy, it was without thought or hesitation—sword skewering a bandit with the same ease and vigor he gave the sparring dummies. Ferdinand was righteous; he was convinced of the justness of his cause, and therefore, could do no wrong.

That unshakable faith terrified Hubert, and yet it obsessed him.

It flashed around the edges of their interaction, a spectre out of the corner of his eye. The gruesome set of his mouth when he’d challenge Lady Edelgard to spar, and the vicious determination to draw blood when Hubert accepted instead. The willingness to draw his blade at the slightest threat—even if only in defense.

And yet in the light, he was a golden beacon, the height of nobility and honor. Soft-hearted and kind and thoughtful to annoying degrees. The more Hubert snarled and threatened, the more determined he seemed to stay.

Hubert began to watch him on missions. Waiting for one side or the other to win out—for him to break down, unable to bear the weight of so much blood on his hands, a weight Hubert himself had long since grown to love. Or else for the hungering beast within to fully take control, transforming him like something demonic into a directionless frenzy, slaughtering friend and foe.

Hubert could see that monster shivering beneath Ferdinand’s skin; he could see it in every thrust of his sword and merciless taunt. But it was always robed in that angelic sense of honor, of purpose—never quite slipping or tearing through the surface—

But for Hubert’s dreams, when Ferdinand was set free, and that sense of justice and purpose was turned Hubert’s way.

He’d discovered Edelgard’s plot, one dream went. Yet he couldn’t be convinced of its justness, its necessity. He came for Hubert, not as a sunbeam but as molten iron, furious and convinced he was enforcing the Goddess’s will—a fist to Hubert’s throat, tears in his eyes, lips to lips as the dagger thrust up into Hubert’s heart, and as he breathed his last into Ferdinand’s tear-salted mouth, Hubert thought, _Yes, this is what I deserve._

Once they declared their war and began their campaign in earnest, Hubert waited for that death around every corner. Maybe it would be the same furor that drove Duke Aegir to try to seize the crown for his own. Greed and self-assurance a toxic sludge in his veins. Or maybe it was the bloody, void-damned simplicity of Ferdinand’s faith, clinging to a false goddess for guidance and answers and cutting down any who challenged his childish beliefs. But Ferdinand _adapted_ , he came around to Edelgard’s way, and took up his sword against her foes with the same assurance he once carried to strike down any enemy of the Church.

He was goodness and justness personified, and somehow far more dangerous for it.

The more Hubert watched him—the more he sensed Ferdinand watching him back. Breathing just a little too quick when Hubert hinted at the dark deeds he carried out in his lady’s name. Leaning in a little too closely when Hubert spoke in low, silk-wrapped threats. Biting his lip a little too hard when over their increasingly common tea breaks, he’d ask Hubert about his work.

It came to a breaking point late one night as they worked side by side over battle plans. Hubert had sent Her Majesty to bed already, assuring her they could manage on their own; but weariness and fatigue were setting in, and even Hubert’s steady transfusions of coffee could only go so far. Frustrated, Ferdinand scratched out yet another proposal.

“What we need,” he said wearily, “is some subterfuge.” He turned to Hubert then, bright eyes searching. “If this were one of dark missions, what would you do?”

“Oh, general,” Hubert murmured, “you don’t want the answer to that.”

He was exaggerating—exhaustion keeping him from checking his baser instincts. And his baser instincts wanted to see Ferdinand _provoked_.

“You think I cannot handle it?” Ferdinand asked. “That I am too naïve?”

And because even Hubert’s will could be broken sometimes, he knew just how to entice him: “I should hate to tarnish your pure-white soul.”

Ferdinand dropped his quill then, and turned on him with a glare. “I am not so pure as you believe.”

_No,_ Hubert thought, standing up, moving silently toward where Ferdinand sat. _I crave your light and darkness both._

“You know what I am capable of,” Ferdinand continued. “You have seen me fight.” He stood too, chest brushing against Hubert’s, chin lifted, defiant, though he was shorter. “I hold nothing back.”

The air between them seemed to crackle as Hubert raised one hand—curled white-gloved fingers around that confident chin. “No. You do not.”

His thumb pushed at Ferdinand’s lower lip, and Ferdinand made the softest sound, barely an echo, and yet the promises of what that sound could become bound Hubert in the most welcome of chains. Whatever bluster had carried him here—he would see this game through. If it was darkness Ferdinand craved, he would give him it.

“Tell me.” Ferdinand’s voice was a hollow, hungry void, drawing Hubert in. “Tell me what you would do.”

He supposed it was safe to say Ferdinand was no longer asking about the mission.

“I would find my prey alone. Helpless. In a vulnerable place—exhausted, perhaps, from hours of planning and debate.” Hubert’s thumb tugged to one side, taking Ferdinand’s lower lip with it. “Lull them into believing they are safe, that they can rest.”

Ferdinand’s breath came out in halting stutters.

“Draw them closer to me with tenderness. Kindness. Let them believe I am on their side.”

Slowly, he dropped his hand down to Ferdinand’s chest, and held it there as he circled the man, bringing himself up behind him. Slid his other arm around Ferdinand’s waist.

“The best assassination is personal. Up-close. If it’s true vengeance you seek—” He buried his nose in the hair alongside Ferdinand’s neck and exhaled carefully, letting his breath seek out all the gaps in Ferdinand’s clothing. “If it’s righteousness you crave, there can be nothing more intimate.”

Ferdinand’s chest rose and fell at a quicker pace now; there came the slightest arch to his back, that well-shaped backside Hubert had admired bending over the council table many times now coming flush against him. If he was surprised or displeased to find the first hint of Hubert’s own arousal there, he made no show of it.

“But what if—” Ferdinand’s voice came out hoarse, and Hubert clenched his jaw at the sound of it, that dense, fermented sound of _want_ that echoed his own. “What if you have no motive behind it? Hubert . . .” Ferdinand shivered as Hubert hooked his gloved fingers on the buckle of Ferdinand’s belt. “Do you ever do it simply because you want to? Because you love the rush of it?”

_I wish I could crush you. Destroy this dark instinct in you and snuff out your goodness._ The metal buckle clicked, far too loud in the gravid silence of the council room. _But I wish you would devastate me, too._

Perhaps Hubert hoped it might balance out.

“Is that what you feel, Ferdinand?” He carefully let the belt slip from his hand, and ran his other palm up Ferdinand’s solid trunk. His fingers teased out the silky cravat tucked into Ferdinand’s vest, the tie pin popping loose. “That you wish to harm without remorse, without reason?”

“Not without reason.” Ferdinand’s breath caught. “I—I am not cruel like my father. But . . .”

“But you crave to embrace your own inner darkness, all the same.”

Hubert yanked at the cravat—pulling it taut. His nose still buried in Ferdinand’s hair, he could feel the tiny yelp and swallow that Ferdinand made at the motion, drank it in like a fine wine. Oh, he would savor that moment of terror for quite some time. He eased his hold on it as his other hand brushed beneath Ferdinand’s jacket, seeking out the fastenings of his breeches.

“What is it you want?” Hubert murmured. “The thrill of danger? Do I make you feel . . .” He ran his knuckles down the stretch of Ferdinand’s shaft atop his breeches, and this time, didn’t bother to suppress his growl. “Naughty?”

Ferdinand whimpered, hips canting up to chase after Hubert’s hand. “You—you make me feel as if . . . I am not alone.”

Hubert froze, though only for a second. Even in his most capricious imaginings, he hadn’t expected that someone like Ferdinand could feel anything _tender_ for a dark creature like himself. To be seen for who he is, to be marked as a kindred spirit—

It was almost too much to bear.

He yanked, vicious, at the fastenings of Ferdinand’s breeches as he wrenched Ferdinand back against him, gloved hand now encircling the front of his throat. As he shoved Ferdinand’s breeches down, he sank his teeth into the side of Ferdinand’s neck, below the hinge of his jaw, where he’d exposed it from the cravat. Ferdinand cried out, bucking back against him, and wrenched his own hands around to squeeze at Hubert’s thighs.

“What do you think, sweet little Ferdie?” He steered him until they faced the council table, littered still with their papers and maps. “Shall I fuck you right here, the proper noble reduced to the wicked filth you really are? Or will you deny me, as if you haven’t been begging me for this with your eyes and your desperate panting mouth for months?”

“Fuck me,” Ferdinand cried, as Hubert swished his tongue over his neck before sinking his teeth in once more. “Please, Hubert, I need to feel you.”

With a laugh, Hubert shoved him face-first onto the table, bending him so that beautiful freckled ass was raised up before him. He released Ferdinand’s throat and pawed at that lovely curved rump with both hands. Kneaded them, ravenous, before nudging them apart—

“Oh, Ferdinand.” Hubert let out a shaky laugh as he bent forward and then bit hard into that ass. “Look at this wretched little hole of yours.” He pushed one finger into his hole; even without oil, it slid in easily. “Such a hungry, slutty little hole you have.”

Ferdinand whined, hips wriggling back on Hubert’s finger. “Almost every night, I—I open myself up, thinking about you . . .”

Hubert breathed in sharp through his nose and stared up at the ceiling for a moment to steady himself. “How I would love to watch that. And you use your fingers for this?”

“Well. I did, at first. But then I bought myself a little—erm, well, not little—”

Hubert fumbles a vial of oil from his pocket—thank goodness he had rather been planning to relieve himself in his office following this meeting, fresh off another long night watching Ferdinand torment him with his very existence. Properly oiled, he easily thrust two fingers into Ferdinand, and drank in the tortured cry that Ferdinand made in reply. “And what am I doing in these fantasies of yours, Ferdinand?”

“Aah—You are doing this.” He bit onto his own forearm as Hubert dug deeper with his fingers, locating that hard node within him and giving it a forceful scrape. “Ah, fuck, Hubert—You finally trust me, you stop treating me as though I am some fragile, innocent lamb you must shepherd—and you let me into your world, let me embrace you for your darkness, because of it and not in spite of it—”

“You say that.” Hubert thrust a third finger into him with no preamble. “But you have no idea what my world entails.”

“Ah, goddess, Hubert, please, fuck me already—”

“No.” Hubert pulled his fingers out with a slow, lengthy drag that made Ferdinand mewl and whine again. “I think I should like you to answer me first.”

“As to what I want?” Ferdinand breathed heavy, that luscious ass still on full display before Hubert, and Hubert couldn’t resist unfastening his own breeches. He gripped his own cock, slicking it with oil, and gave himself a tentative pump.

Not unlike the many times he, too, had imagined this, though he would never admit it.

“I want you to stop feeling as if you must hide a part of yourself from me. I want _all_ of you, Hubert.”

Hubert paused, his confident smirk haltering. “You say that. But you don’t really mean it.” He recovered himself with a sneer as he teased the head of his cock against Ferdinand’s raw, puffy hole. “You’ve no idea the monster I can be, sweet Ferdinand. This is only a taste.”

“Perhaps I don’t know.” Ferdinand writhed his hips backward, and Hubert had to grip the edges of the table to keep himself upright, the promise of pleasure too much to bear. “But I want to know.”

“As you wish, then.”

Hubert wrapped one hand in the silky mane of Ferdinand’s hair, then steadied himself against generous hips with another. And in one long, hungry thrust, he fucked into him, pulling at hair, snarling at the overwhelming pleasure of Ferdinand’s heat and friction surrounding him, swallowing him. Ferdinand’s lusty moan, too, was all the encouragement he needed—that he was wanted, that he was splendid in his darkness, that he, too, was not alone.

* * *

Perhaps neither of them had meant to make a habit of it. Perhaps it had only been, in the end, a careless moment, an unmet need bubbling over. But as it happened again—again—it became harder to deny.

Ferdinand, awaiting Hubert in his bed by surprise one night, naked except for the ropes he was currently tugging into place around him with his teeth.

Hubert slithering out of the shadows to clamp a hand over his mouth late one night, asking for only a nod to give him permission to do whatever he pleased—permission Ferdinand readily granted, and reaffirmed with every tortured cry and furious blush and desperate plea.

And then Ferdinand, clad in his riding boots, whipping him senseless with his crop—making him beg and crawl and kiss jagged spurs that would later dig into his flesh as Ferdinand’s thighs coiled viciously around his waist.

Somewhere along the way, they stumbled into kisses, frantic ones and teasing ones and ones soft as the single tear they were meant to clean away. Wailed pleas adorned whispered confessions, tender and raw like fresh wounds, needy and exposed, but returned, always returned. There was a need raging inside both of them, hotter than mere lust, more honed than the simple comfort of affection. The need to be seen for who they were, and accepted, and—they could no longer deny it—love and be loved.

When Duke Aegir was found dead, it was Hubert Ferdinand sought to rage and scream and curse his father’s name even as he grieved. It was Hubert whose throat he squeezed, whose body he used to unleash all the fury he’d suppressed for twenty-three years, and Hubert was grateful for it.

And in the fields of battle, when the Immaculate One fell, when the scattered remnants of deserters and traitors were hunted down and Hubert wrenched the blood from their veins with his black magic, it was Ferdinand he turned to afterward. His body still humming, throbbing with the darkness he couldn’t contain, his fingers and hands blackened and molten. His blood on fire. His only language a violent need to possess and devour, and every time, Ferdinand offered himself up.

Hubert had once feared seeing his own darkness reflected in Ferdinand’s bright eyes. He had once feared finding his own tender need for affection inside that warm heart. But it was a form of balance, now. A symbiosis. And twisted and knotted together, they were so much stronger than before.

* * *

He shoves Ferdinand against the nearest tree trunk, still wrenching apart his vest, his shirt, drying blood leaving evidence of his frenzied movements on white linen and tawny, freckled skin. Ferdinand keens as Hubert bites at the dense muscle and soft hairs of his breast, and buries his hands in Hubert’s hair as Hubert teases a nipple with his teeth.

“Goddess, please . . . the way you look when your foes realize you have trapped them, when they have no choice but to beg . . .”

Hubert laughs against Ferdinand’s tit as he bites and sucks, working that hard nub into a swollen point as Ferdinand whines. He draws out another forceful suck before glancing up at his darling, no less radiant for the streaks of red that mar him.

“Shall I make you beg, beautiful?” He bites his chest again, closer to his sternum this time. “Shall I leave you with no choice but to plead with me for mercy?”

Ferdinand yanks back a fistful of Hubert’s bangs to expose both his eyes. “I would rather you just fuck me, blood-drunk and wicked as you are . . .” His other hand gathers up Hubert’s cloak and holds firm.

“You’ve no room to speak of wickedness.” Hubert mouths his way down Ferdinand’s chest as he sinks toward his knees, and drags those tight breeches down with him. “I saw the way you cut down those traitors. You wanted them to suffer.”

He groans at the beautiful sight before him: Ferdinand’s cock loosed from his breeches, jutting out, flushed a bloody scarlet hue. Open-mouthed, eyes closed, Hubert rubs his cheek against it, smearing his face and hair with precum. Ferdinand wrenches harder at his hair. “Hubert—”

“Oh, how I want to take my time with you.” He glances up at Ferdinand and makes sure he has his attention as he bites down on the fingertip of his glove and tugs it off. It leaves a coppery taste in his mouth. “Spoil you, worship you like you deserve.” Reaching up, he thrusts two fingers into Ferdinand’s mouth, who moans around them, teeth scraping, before swirling his tongue against them. “But you’ve shattered my patience.”

Hubert forces Ferdinand’s thighs apart, wider, and with his ungloved, spit-slick hand, he threads his arm through Ferdinand’s thighs and makes a rough stab at his hole. “Hubert, fuck!” Ferdinand cries, tensing, before forcing himself to relax.

With another laugh, Hubert uses his gloved hand to encircle the base of Ferdinand’s cock with his finger and thumb, then carefully guides it to his lips. Rubs the head against his mouth in crude, broad swipes, relishing the way Ferdinand twists and gasps. Only now, with Ferdinand panting above him, does he fully slip one finger inside him.

“Goddess . . .”

Hubert snorts at that, then finally closes his mouth around Ferdinand’s shaft, savoring the taste of sweat and exertion as he sinks all the way to meet his finger and thumb; his tongue curls around the thick vein at its underside. Once his nose is nestled in wiry orange hairs, he glances upward—locks eyes with a panting, doe-eyed Ferdinand—and curls his finger inside him until he wails and sinks back against the tree.

Ferdinand seizes his face, and he gives himself over to Ferdinand guiding him in steady, forceful thrusts, letting his mouth be fucked and used even as he fingers him open. At some point, he has to fetch the vial of oil from his jacket to coat his fingers, but barely breaks rhythm as he does so. He resists the urge to skate his palm over his own painful erection. He wants to save every last bit of sensation for later.

“Please, I’m so close—goddess, just fuck me already!” Ferdinand cries, hands falling away from Hubert’s face to clutch at the tree trunk behind him.

Slowly, Hubert eases his fingers out of Ferdinand’s slippery hole, and sits back on his heels, letting Ferdinand’s cock fall from him mouth with a spill of spit from his lips.

“Promise you’ll be loud for me,” Hubert says. His voice is hoarse; the corners of his mouth feel cracked and raw. “I know it’s rarely a problem for you. But I need this whole forest to hear what a soiled, vile slut you are.”

“I promise,” Ferdinand grits, through clenched teeth.

Hubert stands back up, gripping at Ferdinand’s hips for support, then hastily shoves his own breeches down. “Promise you won’t hold back,” he murmurs, as his hands wrap around the backs of Ferdinand’s thighs.

“Never.” Ferdinand’s palm flutters against his cheek with unexpected sweetness. “I never need hide myself from you.”

Hubert swallows. “I know, darling.”

He blinks away dampness—then hoists Ferdinand up by his thighs, lines his cock up with that stretched, dripping hole. Gaze fixed on his love’s blood-smeared, intent face, he rolls his hips up—glides inside of him.

“Fuck,” Ferdinand hisses—but Hubert bites down on his lower lip as he sheathes himself all the way. He growls, feral, at Ferdinand’s heat surrounding him, tight and yet beautifully open for him, and he is consumed, and he wants to devour him in turn.

Ferdinand’s ankles lock behind him, spurs urging him on, and as their mouths knot together, Hubert begins to thrust.

“Fuck,” Ferdinand breathes, then, louder, as he promised. He rakes his tongue into Hubert’s mouth, artless and desperate.

_Break me_ , Hubert thinks, kissing him again. _Shatter me that way only you can._

Ferdinand’s hair and clothing catches on the tree bark as Hubert fucks him, but his nails at Hubert’s back ensure that Hubert will be just as wrecked. And, flames, Hubert always forgets how _heavy_ his love is, dense and muscular despite his delicate features, and even the rush of battle lust can only carry him so far, even his lover’s throaty cries can only give him so much strength, before he feels his knees going wobbly beneath him as he tries to make love to him the way he deserves—

“Lie down,” Ferdinand says sharply, before nipping at Hubert’s throat. “Lie down, let me ride you—”

Hubert tumbles onto his back, relieved, dead leaves shifting around him as Ferdinand sprawls on top of him. He looks up to find the waning sun casting an ethereal glow around Ferdinand’s hair even as his face is shrouded in shadow. Strong thighs dig around Hubert’s hips; one hand pins his wrist above his head. And slowly—forcefully—Ferdinand eases his hips upward before seating himself back onto Hubert’s cock.

And now it’s Hubert’s turn to cry out, to surrender to everything Ferdinand is—everything he’s always craved and feared in one single, incredible man.

“Like that, darling.” Ferdinand’s other hand—a white glove covering it, stained with blood—brushes against Hubert’s cheek, so smeared with spit and cum and blood. “I am here for you.”

And tenderly, with practiced ease, Ferdinand curls those gentle fingers around Hubert’s throat and begins to squeeze.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Hubert wheezes. He’s running out of words, of thoughts, everything focusing down to the lurid heat of Ferdinand and blackness edging his vision, the red haze of death and lust—

And then he is lost in the punch of his climax, breath knocked out of him and throat raw and body numb, he is dimly aware of the furious snarled words leaving his mouth, curses and words of love—

And Ferdinand is bent over him, hair tickling his nose and lips coaxing him back into consciousness. His throat throbs with bruises and his joints ache with the come-down of battle and sex. His stomach is hot with Ferdinand’s spend as his own drips from Ferdinand onto his thighs. And with little licks and whispers and subtle movements from Ferdinand, he is revived.

“Did I do well?” Ferdinand murmurs—the sweet lightness of him returning, proud and shy and careful, after the brutality they just shared.

“Always.” Hubert gazes up at him with unfocused eyes, his vision damp, his body tingling. “You are—everything.”

Ferdinand licks up the side of his face, heedless of the many stains he bears. “And you are everything to me.”

_Salvation,_ Hubert thinks—raising a weary hand to cradle Ferdinand’s cheek.

But he doesn’t need to say it. His darling surely knows. Because they are whole together—and they are no longer alone.

**Author's Note:**

> [@Bohemienne6](http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6)


End file.
